Every nerve and muscle in Rosamond was adjusted to the consciousness that she was being looked at. She was by nature an actress of parts that entered into her physique: she even acted her own character, and so well, that she did not know it to be precisely her own. George Eliot, "Middlemarch"
JILL
"Go into my bedroom," Steve said, my ponytail wrapped around his forearm. "In the leftmost desk drawer, you will find a pair of handcuffs and a leather blindfold. When you hear me lock you in, take off your clothes, put on the blindfold, cuff your wrists behind you, kneel on the rug, and wait for me. Got that?"
"Yes, Sir." I answered. "May I go to the bathroom first, Sir?" (We didn't have any rules about my addressing him as "Sir," it's just something I did when it seemed appropriate--like when my self-preservation instinct kicked in.)
"Yes, you may. Any other questions?"
"Are there any actual office supplies in your desk, Sir?" He slapped my ass, hard. *Worth it.*
"No more questions, Sir."
Motherfucker, he could be so arrogant, though!
We were shooting pool in some dive. I had played a lot of pool as a student, but was keeping that to myself, hoping to see how much trouble I could get into by sharking him--when he took a pack of yellow sticky notes from his inside jacket pocket, peeling two of them off and giving one to me.
"Let's put a wager on this game," he said, drawing a pen out of his other inside jacket pocket.
"What sort of wager?' I asked.
"Whatever you want if you win, write it on this sticky note. I'll do the same."
"Anything?" I asked, a little incredulous.
"Absolutely anything. Write in on the sticky side, then fold the note like a little envelope, stick it shut, and place it under the bumper on the pool table."
"Aren't you going to tell me what you want?" I asked apprehensively.
"Nope."
"Don't you want to know what I write?" I asked.
"Nope."
I did as he said, and he racked the balls and handed me a cue.
What if he wants to flog me at an event? What if he wants to tie me to a tree and fuck me outdoors? What if he wants me to dance in a cage in public?
"Would you like to break?", he offered. I said I would, and almost immediately regretted it as the cue-ball struck off-center, sending only a smattering of balls rolling listlessly around the table. I couldn't believe how flustered and nervous I was.
Steve stepped into the little garden-of-easy-pickings I'd planted for him, and within minutes he had sunk half the striped balls. With each ball, I got edgier and edgier.
"Steve,' I pleaded, "please tell me what you wrote on your note!' He looked straight at me and said, with an infuriating grin, "This is really bothering you, isn't it?" His obvious amusement did nothing for my mood, and I went on pestering after nearly every shot.
At last he put down his cue, took my face in his hands, and said quietly, "Are you going to play, or safeword? It's your choice."
I clamped my lips shut. Except for the clover clamps, he had never done anything to me in private I'd had to ask him to stop doing, so safewording my way out of a mind-game in a public place felt weak and silly. But no doubt about it: this one was hard. Between the secrecy, the apparent absence of any boundaries whatever, and the demand for absolute trust, it took me a long time to reply,
"I'll play."
He held back as long as he could, prolonging my agony of suspense until there was no putting it off any longer. He sank the eight-ball, and my fate was sealed.
He handed me his note, on which he had drawn a picture of a riding crop, which, while I was afraid of them, I had given qualified consent to. Then he picked up my paper and, without looking at it, crumpled it into a tiny ball.
"Hey," I said, "don't you want to know what's on there?"
"Nope," he said, flicking it into the trash can.
Bastard!
The moment I heard the lock engage, I felt trapped and panicky. I tried the door handle; it didn't budge, and my anxiety escalated. I also felt fury as I stalked around the room like a caged animal. It was degrading, demeaning, and goddamn him, sexy as fuck.
I pulled myself together when I realized that he could walk in at any moment, and he'd better find me as he wants me. I stripped off my clothes, folding them neatly the way he liked, and opened the desk drawer.
Shit. The handcuffs were the hinged kind, with no wiggle room at all. Whatever was coming, it was going to be hard.
Cuffed, blind, and naked, I knelt on the rug and waited, trying hard not to let my imagination start stoking my fear. I was also becoming humiliatingly wet.
Unsurprisingly, all that hurrying was a total waste, as he kept me waiting a long time. I couldn't see a clock, of course, but I felt my feet and lower legs go numb. Mindfully, I tried to stay completely present to what I was feeling, sensing, experiencing in that moment. But it didn't make the wait go by any faster. And when I heard the key in the lock and felt the whoosh of air as the door opened, I was relieved that he had finally come for me. Which was, I'm sure, also part of his plan. Asshole.
He strode slowly across the floor, and I suddenly felt the warm caress of leather against my cheek.
"Hello, Grasshopper," he said, gently playing the crop along my neck, chest, breasts, and belly. He paused at my vulva, letting the tress press firmly against my embarrassing wetness until I whimpered.
Taking hold of my ponytail, he pulled me to my feet, steadying me with his other hand until the feeling returned to my feet and legs. I shivered; here it comes, I thought.
Possibly to avoid putting me off the crop forever, he spent a good long time warming up my ass with rapid, gentle swats, bringing blood to the surface and ensuring that the first hard strokes wouldn't sting unbearably. I was grateful for that--until the first hard stroke came.
